IT was about nine o'clock one warm, bright evening in June, when person passing by the grand building known as Arlington House, West Kensington, were startled by a wild shriek, and paused to glance up at the big windows, which were ablaze with light.

      As they did so, the front door was flung open, and a man came rushing forth.

      He was dressed, apparently, in evening attire, but he vanished with such rapidity that no one could observe him very closely.

      In fact, although among the swiftly-gathering crowd was John Ledbury, one of the best know detectives of the day, he allowed the man to pass him, and disappear down a side street.

      Pursuit was useless.

      One man attempted it, but only came back hot, exhausted, and disappointed.

      The others, wiser than he, boldly entered the house, through the open door of which cries for help were still coming, and following the direction of the sounds, made their way to the spacious drawing-room.

      Here an awful scene presented itself.

      Lying on his back on the hearthrug, with his right hand still clutching the end of the bell-rope, was a gentleman with white hair, who in John Ledbury at once recognised as Sir George Arlington, the wealthy baronet, who owned the house.

      Kneeling by his side was a young girl about seventeen.

      She was attired in a low-cut white dinner dress, which showed the exquisite fairness of her skin, and the beautiful contour of the dainty neck.

      She was moaning piteously.

      Her face was deathly pale.

      She looked round wildly as the detective entered the room.

      It was the very dazzling fairness of her skin that made John Ledbury observe so quickly the small crimson stain which was on her breast — a stain of blood, unmistakably — which seemed as if it had splashed up from the wound on the murdered man.

      "It is useless to kneel there, miss," said the detective, when he had made a slight examination of the body; "the gentleman is dead."

      The girl gave a wild cry, and, staggering to her feet, sank back against a chair.

      "Oh! My poor, poor uncle!" she sobbed. "I am indeed alone in the world now."

      By this time the police had arrived, and the inspector, said gently —

      "I know, miss, that you are not in a fit condition to answer many questions. But, may I ask where the servants are? It is strange they did not come up when they heard all this disturbance."

      The girl gave a vacant look round.

      "I can't understand it at all," she said. "Will someone ring the bell?"

      The inspector did so promptly.

      An odd kind of knocking was heard in the interior of the house.

      "Ah," said the girl, "I understand now. Someone has locked the door of communication; the servants cannot reach the room."

      Arlington House was built in an odd, old-fashioned style, although it was one of the finest buildings in the neighbourhood, and at the top of the staircase leading down to the servants' quarters, there was a door of immense thickness, which when locked on the outside, prevented anyone reaching the other parts of the house.

      What the original object of this was, is not known; but, at any rate, it had been made practical use of now.

      Someone had locked it on the outside, and when the astonished servants arrived on the scene it was found that the area-door has been fastened outwardly.

      They had thus been complete prisoners.

      The young girl, having drunk a glass of wine brought her by the butler, recovered her strength sufficiently to tell all she knew of the affair, which was very little.

      She said that had her dinner alone with her uncle, except for the servants who waited at table.

      When the meal was over, Sir George had gone into the drawing-room to fetch an album he wanted to show here, asking her to wait for him.

      Suddenly she heard the sound of angry voices, followed by a wild cry of pain.

      She at once rushed into the drawing-room, to find Sir George dead on the floor, stabbed to the heart.

      "How did that stain of blood come on your breast, miss?" asked John Ledbury.

      "Stain of blood!" cried the young girl, in horrified accents, as she sprang up and rushed to the mirror. "I cannot understand how it came there. I did not touch him with my hands."

      "Did the blood spurt out after you entered the room?" asked the detective.

      "Not that I know of," said the young girl, who had given her name as Laura Arlington. "I saw no such thing. But, then, it is scarcely wise to trust to what I say, for I was so terrified that I nearly lost my senses."

      "Did you see no one, or hear nothing?" asked the inspector.

      "Yes, I heard rapid footsteps hurrying along the passage, and the opening of the front door, but I do not know who it could have been."

      "There was someone in evening dress, I think, who came rushing out of the house, but he escaped. Everyone was so bewildered that they lost their heads and let him escape."

      The surgeon had been summoned, and appeared on the scene while all this was going on; but, of course, his visit was purely formal, as the baronet had been killed on the spot.

      "Well," said the inspector, "nothing further can be done to-night. I must leave a constable in charge, and give notice to the coroner."

      The weeping girl was led away by one of the servants, and put to bed. The constable was accommodated with a chair in the kitchen, where John, the footman, sat up with, and entertained him, and soon all the house was in darkness, save for the light in the bedroom of Laura and that in the kitchen.

      "That's an odd affair altogether," said John Ledbury to the inspector as they walked away together towards the station. "I can't make much out of it myself."

      "No, it's a puzzler, except as to one thing."

      "What is that?"

      "It must have been done by someone who knows the house well. No stranger would have thought of closing that door of communication, and the door of the area too."

      "Do you suspect anyone?"

      "No. I can't think of anyone as yet who could gain by the old man's death, and it is evidently not a case of murder for robbery."

      "No," said the detective, reflectively; "there has certainly been no robbery in the case. What we must find out is, whether there was any private spite against Sir George, or whether there is any other motive for such a crime."

      "Well, I suppose something will come out at the inquest?"

      "Yes," said the detective. "But these things are, as a rule, very disappointing."

      The inquest took place in due course, but little came of it.

      Laura Arlington gave the same story as she had done to the inspector, adding that it was a curious fact that this night was the only one for some time that she had dined alone with her uncle, as, generally, Mrs Morrison, a widowed sister of Sir George, who kept house for him was down to every meal with them.

      She said she knew of no one whose interest it was that her uncle should die.

      He was liked by all his relations, and on good terms with them.

      Questioned as to the one who would benefit by the will, she said she had no knowledge of the existence of any will at all. If there was none, the whole of Sir George's property would go, she believed, to Mr Henry Arlington, a distant cousin, who would, of course, take the title.

      The servants could give little evidence beyond the fact that they heard the cries for help, but could not reach the scene of the catastrophe because the door of communication was locked on the outside; the area door had been served in the same way, and they could not get through the windows as they were all barred.

      The detective and others deposed to the fact of seeing the flight of a man in black and then, in a most lame and impotent way, the first investigation ended.

      The coroner remarked that he would adjourn the enquiry for a week, and that he hoped the police would be on the track of the murderer.

      The court was adjourned from time to time, but nothing came of it.

      And so the crime was relegated to the catalogue of undiscovered mysteries.

      But the public did not know who was on the track, and that was John Ledbury.

      He had determined to take the case up on his own responsibility, and so show the police what a private detective could do.

      When the will of the murdered man was read — for it transpired that there was one — it came as a surprise.

      There was nothing left to the real heir.

      Every farthing was bequeathed to Laura Arlington.

      What would she do now? people wondered.

      There were rumours of an unfortunate attachment, and some talk of broken hearts, but Laura, if such was the case, made no sign.

      She lived on in the old house where she had lived so many years before with her uncle, and, except that she offered a thousand pounds reward for the discovery of the murderer, the affair seemed to drop out of cognisance of the household.

      But John Ledbury was on the watch, and something seemed to him that it would not be very long before he found himself on the track of the assassin.

      In his heart of hearts he had a deep suspicion, but this he had never told to a living soul.

      It was founded on so frail a foundation, that to have made it known would have been not only useless, but dangerous, as it would have impeded all chances in the future.

---

IT was some two months after the murder of Sir George Arlington, that John Ledbury, coming suddenly round the corner of Freeman Street, not a stone's throw from the place of mystery, saw a brougham drive up to the door of No. 2.

      It was about twelve o'clock at night, and he had just returned from his club when this happened, and out of mere idle curiosity he paused a moment to watch the occupants of the carriage alight.

      A gentleman in evening dress got out first, and then a second gentleman, who assisted two ladies to do the same.

      The first gentleman shook hands with the others, and turning, as they passed up the steps of the house, sauntered slowly down the street.

      As he did so, a woman, dressed in black and wearing a deep black veil, came suddenly out of the shadow of the portico, and spoke.

      "Lionel," she said, in a low eager voice, as she touched his arm.

      He started, and drew back with an apparent feeling of deep repulsion.

      "You!" he cried. "What can you want with me?"

      "Oh! do not speak in that voice," she said, in a low tone of desperation and sadness. "it is most important that I should speak to you. Do you refuse me a moment's interview?"

      He had evidently a strong desire that this should not happen.

      "I wish you would not do things which compel me to say unkind words," said the man, "because you make my heart ache to do so; but I have sworn there shall never again be any show of friendship between us. I have too much in the world to live for to allow myself to be led into anything to connect me with old times."

      As John Ledbury followed them, he was not able to catch their words, but the woman, who seemed little more than a girl, appeared to be shaken by suppressed sobs.

      There appeared to be something familiar to Ledbury about her form and walk.

      "Why, I believe it is Laura Arlington!" thought the detective. "What can she doing here at such an hour? Ha! I can listen now to what they are saying."

      They had stopped near the portico of a house where al was in total darkness.

      Here he would be able, if he could reach the spot noiselessly, to listen, unseen.

      He found little difficulty in doing so.

      The pair of talkers were too excited to observe much that was going on around them, and consequently he succeeded in getting up quite close to them.

      He knew Laura's voice, he felt sure, but the man was a stranger to him.

      He could not have sworn to him anywhere.

      He might have been the one who dashed out of Arlington House on the night of the tragedy.

      But how could he tell?

      Men in evening dress are all so much alike, that it would be unsafe to swear to one of them, unless he was able to see his face.

      "Laura," the man was saying, as the detective came up, "I refuse to listen to you more. The fact of your being here at this hour is a proof that you mean mischief to one I love."

      "The one you love, Lionel!" she said, in pleading accents. "Is the report true, then?"

      "The report that I am going to be married to Lillian?"

      "That is what I mean."

      "Yes; it is true. I have made up my mind, and —"

      "You can talk to me of this, after all that I have done to prove my love for you?"

      The man shuddered.

      "Talk not of sacrifices," he cried, almost savagely, "they only disgust me."

      The girl was about to make some further remark, perhaps some fierce rejoinder, but she thought better of it.

      "You shall see how I will act," she said; and with these wild words, which seemed, however, to convey a world of meaning, she turned and almost fled from him.

      Ledbury hesitated as to which he should pursue.

      However, he quickly decide to follow the man.

      He knew already that the girl was Laura.

      It was the other he must shadow now, in order to see what connection there was between them.

      The man seemed too excited to take notice of anyone who was following him, and, for a time, consequently, John Ledbury found it an easy task to carry out his purpose.

      Nevertheless, he was not destined to win the game that night.

      He had gone fully a quarter of a mile, when, reaching one of the busy streets, a hansom cab dashed round the corner, and as the man called Lionel stepped back to avoid the carelessness of the driver, he saw the face of the detective.

      He gave him one searching glance, and then with a leap, he dashed across the road, at the imminent risk of his life.

      Ledbury followed him as quickly as he could.

      But it was in vain.

      He had disappeared among the crowd of pedestrians.

      "Confound him!" muttered the detective. "If that is the same fellow who disappeared from the house on the murder night, he is an adept at vanishing. But I know his name partially, and I know he is a friend of Laura Arlingotn. That is something."

      But he was foiled.

      Next day he called at Arlington House, and sent in his card.

      Laura received him at once.

      She was perfectly calm and self-possessed, but begged to be excused from rising.

      She had sprained her ankle badly, she said, on the morning before, and was unable to get about.

      The morning before!

      How, then, could she have been in Freeman Street the night before!

      However, he made no remark in regard to it, merely saying —

      "I suppose you guess the object of my visit, Miss Arlington?"

      "Something, I expect, in regard to my poor uncle's murder."

      "It is. You have offered a handsome reward, and I should like to win it at the same time as I brought the murderer to justice."

      "Have you found any clue, then?" she cried, eagerly.

      "I do not know yet," he said. "If I have I must not tell it. What I want to know is, do you reckon among your acquaintances any gentleman's whose first name is Lionel?"

      She thought a moment.

      "Well, not now," she said. "I did once know a person of the name of Lionel Hanbury; but I have not seen him for years."

      "I wonder if he is still in London?"

      "That I cannot tell you," she said; "but I see no reason why he should not be."

      "What is his profession?"

      "He is a gentleman," said Laura. "I do not fancy he ever followed any profession."

      "What age is he?"

      "About thirty. But why do you ask all these questions? Do you you fancy that you can inculpate him in my uncle's murder?"

      "I can't say yet. I saw a person last night who looked to me very much like the man who ran out of this house on the night of the tragedy. He was talking to a lady, who called him Lionel, and he called her Laura."

      "A singular coincidence, certainly," said Miss Arlington, "but I do not see it leads up to much. The murderer was a stranger, I should think, and, at any rate, Lionel Hanbury would have no cause to commit such a crime. He and my uncle were not even intimate acquaintances."

      "Well, I shall try and find this Mr Hanbury, whose approaching marriage with a lady named Lillian may help me in my search."

      "Of course, if you bring home the murder to Mr Hanbury, he is no more to me than anyone else, and you will receive the reward."

      John Ledbury rose to go.

      There seemed nothing further to say, and merely adding, "I will let you know, Miss Arlington, directly I hear anything," he quitted the house.

      "That's a cool card," he thought, as he took his departure. "I believe she knows that Hanbury had a hand in the murder, and is screening him for some reason. And yet that seems strange when we thing how fierce she was with him last night, for, sprained ankle or not, it was Miss Arlington who was in Freeman Street.

      "Well," he added to himself, as he proceeded to imbibe a glass of bitter before showing up at the office, "women are ‘kittle cattle,' as the Scotch say. There's no knowing what they will do or what they won't do. If all else fails, she may be going to hold this murder business over Lionel Hanbury to frighten him out of his engagement to Lillian."

*  *  *  *  *  *

      In an odd, dark corner of Battersea there was a queer little hovel, belonging to two brothers named Darby — Joe and Bill.

      They were in age within two years of each other, but in appearance they were utterly different.

      Joe Darby was a ponderous giant, with broad, burly shoulders, and a big head and great hands.

      Bill was thin and gaunt, and hawk-like.

      Never were men so opposed to one another in appearance, and yet they were almost of the same disposition.

      Both grey and grim.

      Both surly.

      Both ready to take up any task, however shady, to bring grist to the mill.

      Business had been very slack of late.

      Thy were not particular.

      All was fish that came to their net.

      From finding dead bodies, and getting the five shillings reward, to, perhaps, making the corpse in the first instance, was said to be equally in their line.

      But there was one thing which they set their against resolutely.

      That was burglary.

      They had tried it once, and had seized a goodly quantity of plunder.

      But they were caught in the very act, and were sentenced to a long term.

      This was a settler.

      From that moment they resolved to give up nocturnal visits to gentlemen's villas without a card of invitation, and settled themselves to a different class of dishonesty.

      To look at their wretched home, one would have imagined that honesty would have paid them far more comfortably.

      But apparently it was not so.

      Their miserable hovel, bad as it looked outside, was just as bad, if not worse, within.

      A couple of truckle beds, with ragged, ill-smelling bed-clothes, a table, and two or three chairs, comprised the furniture.

      But they liked it.

      Their comfort was in the stealth of their work, the working in the dark, the finding of unexpected things, the sudden leaps they had sometimes from abject poverty to what was wealth to them.

      On the night on which we introduce them they were very gay.

      Coming along the dark common at Wandsworth, they had stumbled over a man.

      "A dead ‘un, I expect," growled Joe.

      He took out his lantern — his never-failing companion — and examined the man lying so prostrate and helpless.

      He was not dead.

      "Has been laid out here by someone?" asked Bill.

      "I don't think so," said Joe. "If he has, he hasn't been robbed, so, while he's like a corpse, I'll just relieve him of his belongings."

      Most people knew of the nightly danger of the common.

      But this was not a case in point.

      As Joe threw the light of the lantern on the unconscious man, he saw that he had struck his head against a large stone.

      It was quite evident that this was the cause of the misfortune, for there was a ghastly stain on the stone itself, which corresponded with the mark on the head of the fallen man.

      "Well, he's in a bad way," said Joe, "but it won't do to give information to the police; they'd think it was our doing. let's empty his pockets as quickly as we can, and be off."

      No sooner said than done.

      They were deft-handed thieves.

      In the course of a few moments everything of value on his person had been transformed to their pockets, and even his papers.

      "Might be useful someday," said Bill.

      This "find" proved a good one.

      It consisted to a gold watch, two rings, and a purse containing gold and silver — twenty pounds' worth.

      "I don't like leaving the old fellow there, do you, Joe?" said Bill Darby, as they walked off.

      "But what are we to do?"

      "Don't see as we can help it."

      Joe thought a moment.

      "Look here, Bill," he said, "we'd better do something for him"

      "Why?"

      "We might get into trouble, even if the police didn't see us at all."

      "How's that?"

      "Why, if anything came of the watch, we might be traced by that."

      "But what can we do?"

      "Why, we'll find some chap going along as doesn't know us, and tell him there's an old fellow lying on the common," said Joe. "Tell the truth — that the police know us, and would put the affair on to us."

      And so it was done.

      A man who didn't know them was met, and informed of the catastrophe, and next morning there were sensational paragraphs in all the papers about a mysterious outrage on Wandsworth Common.

      It was only Joe and Bill who knew there was no outrage, for the man himself, after he was restored to consciousness, could not tell whether he had tripped or had been knocked down.

      It was over this accident they were making merry on the evening when we introduce them and their hovel to our readers.

      Joe was lying on a bed.

      A pipe was in his mouth; on the table beside him was a tankard of beer.

      Bill was lying back in a rickety armchair, with the same adjuncts to happiness.

      "Well, Joe," he said, "I think we've had the best find now that we've had for many a day."

      "Yes; pretty good."

      "Who do you think I saw to-day?"

      "Can't say."

      "It was John Ledbury, who bowled us out over the Middleham burglary. I wish I had a chance of doing him a good turn."

      As if someone had been listening at the door, a knock sounded at this moment.

      Both men, sprang up with an oath.

      "Who's that?" growled Joe Darby. "I wonder ——"

      "Hush!" said Bill. "I'll go and see."

      He went to the door, and opened it.

      Only a little way, merely allowing a peep at the visitor.

      Outside stood a shortish man, young apparently, and dressed in a cape and cloak.

      "Who are you? And what do you want?" asked Bill.

      "I am a friend, and I bring you work," returned the stranger, "for which you will be well paid."

      Bill eyed him suspiciously.

      "How am I to know this?" he asked.

      "I come from Josiah Merton."

      "Come in," said Bill, and he opened the door.

      The stranger entered.

      He was of slight and effeminate appearance, and the one glance he gave around did not seem to reassure him.

      However, he had evidently known pretty well beforehand what he was going to see, and he sat down quickly on the chair to which Bill pointed.

      "Now, we're all attention," said the latter.

      "Do you know a man called John Ledbury?"

      Both men burst into a laugh.

      "Yes, we do," said Joe Darby. "We've just been talking of him."

      "Is he a friend of yours?"

      "We should both like to see him dead."

      The stranger smiled.

      "Well, I don't exactly want that," he said; "but I desire something done to him."

      "Tell us, and we'll do it."

      "Whatever it is?"

      "Yes."

      The stranger heaved a deep sigh.

      There seemed to be some terrible temptation in his heart which he was struggling to resist.

      "I want him kidnapped," he observed.

      "We'll drown him, if you like," said Joe.

      "No; I don't wish such a thing as that," replied the stranger, with a smile. "I will not bet about the bush any longer. I want John Ledbury taken away to some lonely place, where he can be kept secure for a time. I wish him to be treated with every kindness, and to be released in good health on notice given by me. Do you know of a place to which he could be taken?"

      The two men though a moment.

      Then Bill said —

      "What about Mother Crow?"

      Joe smacked his knee in delight.

      "The very thing," he cried; "the very thing. We owe her a good turn, for what she did for us once — you know when."

      "We do, Joe, and that strong room upstairs is just the place. We can do this thing, sir, to rights; but you'll have to tell us a little bit more."

      "Certainly. What do you want to know?"

      "In the first place," said Joe Darby, "where it is likely we shall find our man."

      "And secondly," said Bill, "the reward."

      "Mr John Ledbury," returned the stranger, "will be induced by a false letter to make his way to Pemberton Street, Chelsea. It is near the bridge, and is as dark an alley as one could wish to find. Have a cab ready at the corner nearest the river on the second night from this, and wait from nine until ten. He will be there."

      "And the reward?"

      "A hundred pounds."

      "It is not enough," said Joe Darby. "Make it two. Look at the risk we run."

      "Well, it's worth it to me," replied the stranger, "quite worth it. I am only afraid of being deceived. Here are fifty pounds. If you keep them without doing my wishes, I shall make no sign, but I shall consider you to be fools, and will do my best to prevent your ever having such a chance again."

      "We won't deceive you, master," said Joe, watching eagerly the delicate white hand, which counted out fifty sovereigns. "We'll do the work."

      "And when it is done you shall have the remainder."

      "That's right, master; we quite believe you," said Bill, with a cunning laugh; "'cos if you didn't we'd let Mr Ledbury out the very next day."

      "Well, this is a rum go," Joe observed, when their strange visitor had gone. "That didn't seem like a man to me."

      "No," said Bill, "the hands looked like those of a woman. But it doesn't matter to us who it is as long as we're paid."

      "Not a whit," said Joe. "I'm only glad there is a chance of our being able to do as we've always hoped."

      "And what is that?"

      "To quit this wretched city, and go to America. We can marry Grace and Polly, and ——"

      The other burst into a loud roar of laughter.

      "What, all this on two hundred pounds!" he said. "Not much! You leave it to me, Joe, and these won't be the last pounds we'll get out of our stranger."

      "By the way," remarked Joe, "he never gave us any name. But his money is good enough for us. What a rum go it was that we should have been talking of John Ledbury, and here's a chance for revenge at last!"

      "Aye," said Bill to himself, as he went to obtain some refreshment for the night, "and it won't be my fault if he doesn't break his neck during the adventure!"

---

THE following morning, the detective received a note, written evidently in a disguised hand.

      It was to this effect —

      "If you wish still to prosecute the search for the assassin of Sir George Arlington, and are brave enough to run some risk, I can put you in the way of winning the thousand pounds reward.

      "But two things are absolutely necessary.

      "Silence is one great thing.

      "There is another, however. If you include anyone else in the adventure, you will find your labour all in vain.

      "If you are disposed to go on with the affair on my terms, meet me at the end of Pemberton Street (Chelsea Bridge) between nine and ten to-morrow-night.

      "A cab will be waiting, which will take us to a place where you will learn all the truth.

      "If you are not alone I shall not show myself.

      "I know you, but you do not know me, and, consequently any treachery attempted will only result in your disappointment.

      "There is one thing more I must say.

      "If I hand over to you the criminal, and a conviction takes place, I claim a quarter of the reward — that will be two hundred and fifty pounds."

      There was no signature.

      John Ledbury pondered the affair over for some time.

      Should he go?

      It was risky.

      But still, there was nothing out of the way in that.

      His life was always in peril.

      He had been used to it during the whole progress of his professional career.

      Certainly it had not been his lot to come across such an adventure as this.

      There might be treachery.

      "However, I'll go," he thought. "I'll take one companion, and that will be my revolver. I'm bent on discovering the murderer of Sir George Arlington without the aid of the police, and I mustn't fight shy at the first chance."

      On the next evening, accordingly, he gave information to Scotland Yard that he was going on a little adventure which might prove risky, and then, alone, save for his companion, as he called his revolver, he started for Pemberton Street.

      The night was dark, for it was the end of September, and the days were getting short.

      Very few persons were about.

      At any rate, in the dark and dismal neighbourhood to which he was wending his way.

      He kept a good look-out.

      It was a villainous spot.

      A spot full of strange alleys and courts, from which, at any moment, might spring a hidden enemy.

      He wore a hat well drooped over his eyes, and the collar of his coat was turned up.

      These things were done as matters of precaution while he was threading the courts and alleys.

      When he reached the end of Pemberton Street he, of course, altered it all.

      To go disguised at that spot would spoil the whole purpose for which he was there.

      As he walked rapidly from the court near the end of the street, he saw a four-wheeler standing at the corner.

      It was, apparently, empty.

      The cabman was sitting on the box, to all seeming, half asleep.

      Walking impatiently to and fro at the side was a short and slight man with a cape overcoat.

      It was the stranger who had visited the hovel of the Darbys at Battersea.

      On seeing John Ledbury he hastened up to him, saying, in a hurried monotone —

      "You are Mr Ledbury, the detective?"

      "Yes."

      "You received my letter?"

      "I did; had I not i should scarcely be in such a neighbourhood at such an hour."

      The stranger looked furtively round.

      "I am watched," he said, "so enter the cab quickly. I can explain all as we go along."

      He opened the door as he spoke.

      John Ledbury sprang in, seeing nothing to alarm him, for the cab was empty.

      As soon as they were both inside, the vehicle drove off, and the stranger, seating himself said —

      "I am glad you have had the courage to come, Mr Ledbury; you don't know how

      "Well," said the detective, "if I'm going to find out anything about the Arlington tragedy, I'm as glad as you."

      "It all depends upon yourself."

      "How so?"

      "Whether you are prepared to go through with the adventure?"

      "I shall — in fact, I must no I have begun it."

      "Well, it is best to do so. But I had better be quick and explain, or I shall not have time. The man who committed the murder is called Lionel Hanbury, and to-night you shall have confirmation of the fact."

      "Good," said the detective, though by no means enthusiastically. "Pray proceed."

      "He will be at a place on the river-side on business in about half-an-hour's time, and there you will find him easily."

      "But I cannot arrest him single handed."

      The stranger laughed.

      Such a rippling laugh, that, for the moment, the detective was suspicious.

      "Arrest him — no. I meant nothing of the sort," he said. "If you attempted anything of that kind you would have to bring men with you, and that would create suspicion; besides, how could you arrest him without any proofs of his complicity in the crime?"

      "No. But where are the proofs coming from now?" asked John Ledbury.

      "You will be placed in a room where you will hear a conversation between Lionel Hanbury and an accomplice, or, rather, one who has assisted him in keeping out of the way. Then you will know what proofs you have."

      The vehicle had all this time been moving rapidly along, and it had now reached a dark and secluded part of the road close to the river-side.

      Here the highway, if it could be dignified with such a name, was rough and rutty, and the cab frequently tipped, as if it would turn over.

      Presently, with a jerk, it came to a dead stop.

      The stranger leaped towards the door and opened it.

      As he sprang out, another man leaped in.

      Something was evidently wrong.

      But before the detective could draw his revolver, or do anything to defend himself, the opposite door opened, and a second man sprang in also.

      It needed no great amount of perception to see that the whole affair was a plant.

      But he was powerless.

      He had been seized at once by the first ruffian, and when the second one came upon the scene, he was already, to a certain extent, overpowered.

      "Fool that I was not to have foreseen this," he said, as he struggled vainly.

      The men, who were both masked, only chuckled.

      "Ha!" said Joe, in a disguised voice, "my friend, you are in the hands of those who know what to do with you. It's no good struggling."

      "If you do," added Bill, "you'll get a knock on the head."

      And, as the unfortunate detective made as if going to speak again, the ruffian put in practice his threat, and struck John Ledbury a violent blow behind the ear, which fairly stunned him.

      In another moment he was blindfolded and gagged.

      What happened after this he had no knowledge of until he recovered consciousness and sight in a little dark room, where there was only a truckle bed, a chair, a table, and a dull lamp, which shone feebly on a piece of projecting wood that served for a mantelpiece.

      He sprang up from the couch on which he had been flung, and made a dash to the window.

      One look sufficed to tell him the truth.

      He was a prisoner.

      For a moment he staggered with the force of the calamity by which he had been overtaken.

      For it was in that way he regarded it.

      He scarcely thought of the peril he was in.

      What was most distressing to him was the idea how he had been outwitted.

      That roused in him a fierce and ungovernable passion.

      He walked to and fro in a mood which, perhaps, he had never experienced before, and which, presently, he was ashamed of.

      Then, approaching the window, he again looked out, as well as he could for the grime.

      He could see nothing at first.

      Then certain little movements, rendered visible by the feeble light thrown through the rifts in the clouds, told that he was near the river-bank — or rather the river itself.

      "I am in one of those old death-traps on the brink of the Thames," he thought. "I wonder who has done this?"

      Presently a clicking noise was heard at the door, and a part of it was drawn back, a small panel which slid easily aside, revealing the face of a man in a black mask.

      Of course, the detective's revolver had been taken away from him, or he would now have had a slight chance of escape.

      As it was, the man said —

      "Mr Ledbury, if you want any refreshment, you need not fear to use what we give you. We should lose money by taking your life."

      "What have you got for me?" asked Ledbury, gruffly. "You don't suppose that I want to stay here and be starved?"

      "No. We have brought you some roast beef, a mug of beer, and some whisky to send you to sleep."

      "All right; pass them along," said John Ledbury.

      He took the things and placed them on the rickety table, saying as he did so —

      "How long is it supposed I am to be kept here?"

      "I can't say," returned the man, who was no other than Bill Darby; "but if I had my wish, you'd never come out again"

      "Why, what harm have I ever done you?" asked John, pretending to be calm.

      "You are one who caused me and some of my friends to have five years," said Bill. "Who I am I will not tell you, but I know I and the rest of them would like to keep you here as long as you caused us to be kept."

      "Well, I trust you won't be able to carry out such a threat as that," said Ledbury, "for I am anxious to see my wife and friends again, and, in addition to that, I have work to do on which my heart is set."

      "You won't do it yet awhile, then," said Bill Darby, drily, "except for a good fee."

      "What would you call a good fee — fifty pounds or so?" asked the detective.

      The man laughed.

      "Why, I and my mate have had two hundred for this," he said.

      Ledbury whistled.

      "Two hundred pounds, eh?" he murmured to himself. "That's a big sum."

      The idea seemed to put him on the scent of something or other.

      "That's good pay," he said. "I suppose you fellows have clubbed together to have revenge his fashion?"

      "Ah! No you're trying to get at me," said Bill Darby, with a cunning leer. "You don't think for a moment, do you, that, if what you said was true, I'd split on my friends?"

      "Well, if I give you three hundred pounds, will you tell me the time I have got to be here and the name of the one who employed you?"

      Bill pondered a moment.

      There was a chance of getting enough money out of the detective to carry out his cherished scheme of going to New York and living there with the woman who had promised to marry him.

      "Well, that ain't a bad offer," he said; "but if you were to give me five hundred or a thousand pounds, i couldn't do as you ask, because I don't know your time or the chap's name that employed us. What I do know is, that both me and my mate thought it was a woman, and not a man at all, and from what she said, it seemed as if she meant you to stop here a goodish bit."

      "Let things go on as they are, then," said John Ledbury. "I sha'n't renew my offer."

      "Don't be in a hurry, master," said Bill. "I'll try to find out what you want to know."

      "Let it be so," said the detective, and by sitting down at the rickety table to his supper, he intimated that he desired the interview to be at an end.

      Bill accordingly growled a surly "Good night," closed the panel, and departed.

      While devouring his comestibles and quaffing his ale, Ledbury set himself to think.

      A woman!

      That seemed a clue.

      Both these men, whose identities he did not, of course, know, had thought that their employer was a woman.

      When in the cab, the light, airy laugh had given him the same idea.

      Could it be Laura Arlington?

      If so, she must be tricking them all.

      And for what purpose?

      He shuddered to think.

      Then came the memory of the One Crimson Stain upon her white and beautiful breast.

      Was she, after all, the murderess of the unfortunate Sir George Arlington?

      It seemed hardily credible.

      Yet it might be so.

      There were facts against her.

      In the first place she was the one benefited by the will, and, though she denied it, she might have known of its existence and contents.

      Then that crimson mark!

      How did it get there?

      She swore that she was in an adjoining room when the murder was committed, and, consequently, no spurt of blood could have come from the murdered man onto her bosom.

      For she had found him lying on his back with the dagger in his heart, the thick handle preventing even the flow of blood, save to a very small extent.

      It could not have come by her pressing her hand on her breast, for her hands were free of all stain.

      This crimson spot had, all through, rankled in the mind of the detective.

      But he had kept it to himself.

      If he had told it to the police authorities, it might have been followed by an arrest.

      And an abrupt thing of that kind would have spoiled all.

      As he sat cogitating on the matter, and endeavouring to weave a plan by which he could bring Laura to bay, he heard a murmuring of voices near him.

      He half rose, and listened.

      After a few moments he discovered that the sound came from the direction of the bed.

      Stealthily he made his way to it, and listened.

      He could hear voices talking eagerly, but he could not catch the words.

      The wall was only of wood.

      But it was evidently of great thickness.

      He suddenly, however, saw a ray of light coming through a chink above his head.

      Getting upon the bed, he found that a knot had been displayed in the wood.

      It was only a small aperture, but it had a slanting tendency, and, consequently, he was able to look down into the next room.

      The light below was very dim.

      Nevertheless, he was able to make out the forms of three men, gathered round a table in the centre.

      He could not see the faces of any of the, and their figures were indistinct.

      But he could now hear them talking.

      Two of them had gruff voices.

      These might be the man with whom he had been speaking, and his mate; the other spoke more softly and correctly.

      Not, however, like a polished gentleman, but like an upper servant.

      He was speaking as the detective listened, putting his ear to the hole.

      "It's no use your trying to bother me for more money," he said; "I cannot get it for myself, that's a fact. She won't part with any more. I've had as much out of her as I can ever get, and so have you out of me."

      One of the men gave vent to an oath.

      "You're deceiving us," he said, "and it ain't a paying or a square game. You know she daren't refuse. You ought to get another five thousand clear."

      The man laughed bitterly.

      "And a noose round my neck," he said. "What kind of a fool do you take me for?" No, no; I'm too closely in the matter to allow of that. I'm off in a month. I may get a hundred then, but I want it — every farthing."

      "Well, we'll wait and see," said one of the men, savagely. "But I expect that, if I get a drink in me some of these nights, and you don't pay up what you promised, I shall split every word about the Arlington Tragedy."

      Used as he was to surprises, the detective almost uttered a cry of amazement.

      The Arlington Tragedy!

      Had he been made the object of an outrage to be brought face to face with this mystery, and to find the clue in the very house where he was a prisoner?

      It seemed so, indeed.

      He listened eagerly.

      His heart beat with an unwonted feeling of delight.

      To think that, after all, he was listening to such a thing seemed too good to be true.

      But on this occasion he did not hear very much.

      It was only, as it were, a preparation for future action.

      "Well," said the man with the soft voice, "if you split on me,, I should split your skull, so we should be quits. What do you think, Tommy?"

      "I think I wouldn't quarrel, if I were you," said the one spoke to as Tommy. "It is of no use, and it might be dangerous. Wait and see how things turn out."

      "Well, yes, that would be best," said he of the soft voice. "It may be that I am wrong, and I shall get the money which you so eagerly desire. If not, you must be content to do without it."

      "When will you be here again?"

      "In a week from to-night."

      "Well, I shall be here also to meet you, and if you do not keep your word, you will find me on your track, as safe as your name is Jacob Wadcombe."

      The name struck the detective forcibly.

      It was a most uncommon one, and it set his mind wondering once more.

      Perhaps it was one of the Arlington men at the time of the murder, who had been in a position to see something of what was going on that awful night.

      If so, his theory as to the crimson stain would seem to be swelling into importance.

      Little more was said.

      Nothing, in fact, relating to the case in point.

      They only seemed arranging about a few minor matters, and presently they quitted the house.

      John Ledbury got down from his post of observation, and was soon in bed.

      And here he had come to one resolution: whether he was offered his freedom or not, he would not accept it at any price, until he had seen and heard a little more of Jacob Wadcombe.

      Next day, when all was quiet, the visit of his keeper over, and the house apparently empty, he took out his pocket-knife and began to enlarge the hole by which he saw into the adjoining room.

      It was a difficult task, for the wood was exceptionally hard.

      But he succeeded in enlarging it sufficiently for his purpose.

      No one was about.

      And consequently no one would suspect or even take the trouble to glance up at the hope, which had so long been forgotten.

      For a short time John Ledbury imagined that he would be able some night to cut a space sufficiently big to enable him to escape.

      But he soon found this was a fallacy.

      There was only this piece of thin wood in the whole wall, just where it had been mended or altered.

      The rest was solid and thick.

      But he had the satisfaction of knowing that he had every chance of hearing all that passed whenever Jacob Wadcombe should reappear.

      A great surprise was before him.

      Something which he had never dreamed of.

---

IT was on the night after the visit of Jacob Wadcombe to the house of Mother Crow, as the old crone who kept it was called, that the detective heard the heavy feet of men ascending the rickety and creaking stairs.

      He had no conception as to who they might be, or whether their conversation would interest him in any way.

      But he had resolved to be always on the alert.

      He sprang on the bed accordingly.

      In a moment his eye was to the hole, and watching the door of the adjoining room.

      The men who entered were plainly discernible in the light of the lamp carried by the first.

      They were two rough-looking customers, who were utter strangers to him.

      One had fiery red hair, and seemed of a foxy, treacherous nature.

      The other was sleek and grey.

      Both looked thorough rascals.

      They sat down at the table, with the mugs of ale carried by the second man, and, having taken a swig, one of them said —

      "Well, Tom tell us about that affair at Ribston's — how you found out about that murder at Arlington House."

      "Why, ye see, I went there one day, and old Ribston says to me, ‘we've got a man upstairs what's very ill, and if you have nothing to do for a little while it would pay to nuss him.'

      "You know old Ribston keeps that little beer-shop on the river-bank known as "The Sun on the River,' and he gives refuge to any one who's hiding away from the perlice.

      "'Who'll pay me?' I asked.

      "'I will,' he says. ‘The chap's got plenty of money, and will be glad to reward us both.'

      "So I went up in the room, and found a man lying in bed, tossing to and fro like mad.

      "It was Jacob Wadcombe.

      "He was raving something about murdered, though, for the life of me, at first, I couldn't make out what he was saying.

      "He kept talking of Arlington House, and Miss Laura, and so on, and saying he wished he'd never kept the secret, but it was all so confused that I couldn't understand what he was alluding to.

      "Little by little, however, when I read the accounts of the Arlington murder, I pieced it together.

      "It seemed to me, and it turned out right afterwards, when he confessed to me, that there had been a big row that evening between Miss Laura and her uncle.

      "But none of the servants knew of it except Jacob.

      "They were all downstairs.

      "But he had seen a purse full of money lying on the mantelshelf in the drawing-room, and had made up his mind to have it.

      "He had just seized it, when he heard Sir George coming, and darted into a cupboard, the door of which shut and opened with a spring, but which had a little glass window in it.

      "Sir George came in, white and angry.

      "Then followed Miss Laura.

"She was just as angry, only she was flushed, and talking excitedly.

      "'It shall not be!' said Sir George. ‘I am not going to leave my money to you to keep a beggar. If you marry Lionel Hanbury, I will leave every farthing I have to Henry Arlington, although he is only a distant cousin.'

      "They went at it hammer and togs, and Laura went on like a demon.

      "Then, sudden like, she seizes a dagger off the table, and with a cry like that of a wild animal, plunges it into his heart.

      "The old man went down like a rocket.

      "Well he might!

      "It must have all been premeditated, or she wouldn't have locked the door and kept all the servants in, though Jacob Wadcombe may have done that when he thought of committing the robbery.

      "When the old man fell, catching hold of the bell-pull as he did so, she screamed out, and her lover, who'd been waiting in the dining-room, where he's been since dinner, came rushing in.

      "He uttered a cry of horror.

      "Then, with a look at Laura, he went quickly up to the old man, and kneeling down by him, raised his head.

      "'Who has done this, Laura?' he asked, his face white and his voice stern.

      "The girl knelt and clasped her hands.

      "'Oh! forgive me, Lionel!' she cried. ‘It was done in the heat of passion. He insulted me so grossly that I snatched the dagger from the table and plunged it into his heart. But it was for you — for you, my darling! Do not look at me like that. He is dead, no one will know who did it, and there is now no barrier between us.'

      "He slowly lowered the body back on the carpet.

      "Then, as he rose, she rose also, and made a movement forward to embrace him.

      "But he was full of disgust and horror.

      "He raised his hand, red with the blood of the murdered man, and pushed her from him, and as he touched her white bosom, he left on it a crimson stain.

      "'What!' she cried, ‘you spurn me, when I have risked my life — my very soul, for you?'

      "'Yes, murderess!' he cried. ‘You speak of no barrier between us. There is an awful one — the barrier of sin! I will say no word which shall lead them to accuse you, but I will fly from the house; I will not remain to be implicated in this awful deed. Farewell for ever!'

      "And with that he dashed out of the house, just as Laura Arlington uttered those piercing shrieks which brought the people in from the street.

      "How he escaped capture was a miracle, but he did, and he has not been seen since."

      "And then, of course, Jacob Wadcombe told the murderess all he had seen?"

      "Why, of course, and she gave him money to hold his tongue. He's going to leave the country as soon as he can clear out, and I think he'll get another lot of cash before he goes. But we're going to have some of that.

      "I'm told, by-the-bye, that Laura Arlington has put away that detective fellow, John Ledbury."

      "What for?"

      "She knows he suspects her, and is on her track."

      "But he'd lose his thousand pounds reward by bringing her to justice."

      "That's so," said the other. "But he loses it any rate, so he may as well do himself a good turn by being the one to discover the murderer."

      "When is Jacob coming again?"

      "In six days' time. But, I say, mate, i would not be in John Ledbury's shoes for a little bit."

      "Why?"

      "Don't you see? She dare not let him go now. He must die, or she must, for he's sure run her to earth at last. She couldn't quite trust the men she's got for such work, but he'll be made away with, and that for certain."

      "Just so," though John Ledbury, "and the sooner I'm out of this the better. These men are complete thought-readers; they seem to see through my motives, and, as for myself, I knew that One Crimson Stain meant something. If she had been splashed with blood it would have been different. Now to plot and contrive my escape."

      As he got down rather heavily the middle iron of his bedstead gave way, and fell to the floor.

      In a moment an idea presented itself.

      He would use this as a crowbar.

      It was not a very good shape for the purpose, but still it might serve.

      He began at the door.

      The men had gone as soon as the one had heard what the other had to say.

      All the place was in utter quietude.

      Probably no one was in the building except old Mother Crow herself.

      He gently inserted the end of the iron into the crack of the door just where the lock was, and began to wrench.

      At first it made no appreciable impression on the stout woodwork.

      But it was impaired by age, and presently began to show signs of yielding.

      He slowly pressed again with all his might, and the door began to crack and shiver all over.

      He did no act with too much haste.

      He knew that any loud sound might awaken even the old crone, who could readily summon assistance.

      Slow and sure was his motto, and though now and again the iron gave signs of bending, he went on carefully and successfully.

      By six in the morning — for he had been working all night — he had forced the door, and stood in the passage comparatively free.

      He knew not, however, what he might yet have to do, and accordingly, having no other weapon, he clutched the bedstead iron firmly.

      He had his reputation and his own life to fight for now, and he resolved to sell the latter dearly.

      As he reached the end of the passage, he thought he heard the sound of voices.

      They might be those only of the old woman and a friend.

      But he was resolved to run no risks of recapture, and seeing a window ahead of him, he gently opened it, and dropped a few feet to the ground.

      He did not hesitate a moment now, but being on the dark and rutty road, he made his way to the "Son on the River."

      Here by good luck, he met a patrol, to whom he confided enough to make him watch the house, and then he dashed off at full speed to Scotland Yard.

      At Battersea he was fortunate enough to secure a cab, and consequently his journey was a little shortened.

      On reaching police quarters he gave a full and detailed account of the discoveries he had made; and while two constables were sent off to arrest Jacob Wadcombe, John Ledbury and two others proceeded to Arlington House.

      In his own heart the detective wished that his quarry had not been a woman.

      But then justice must be done.

      When they reached Arlington House, John Ledbury knocked at the door, and asked, when the servant opened it —

      "Where is Miss Arlington? I have the most important business with her."

      "She is in the drawing-room," said the servant, somewhat nervously, for she seemed to scent something wrong.

      But Laura had heard Ledbury's voice, and as he walked quickly forward, they met face to face.

      His stern look told her something was amiss, and she recoiled.

      "What means this intrusion, Mr Ledbury," she said, in a faint voice, which she in vain endeavoured to render calm and haughty. "How dare you enter unannounced?"

      "I come in the name of the law," said the detective. "I will pass over my own abduction at your hands, and my proposed murder later on. I come to arrest you on the charge of murdering your uncle, Sir George Arlington, in this very room."

      She turned deathly pale, and clung to a table for support.

      "Why am I accused? What motive could I have?" she cried, in a low voice, while her bosom heaved with the intensity of her emotion.

      "Your accomplice, Jacob Wadcombe, has made a confession of the crime," said Ledbury. "And I always suspected you from that One Crimson Stain I saw upon your bosom on the night of the murder — the stain from Lionel Hanbury's hand when he pushed you from him in his anger. But is it not for me to say more."

      He gave a short whistle.

      The two constables entered the room.

      "I arrest you," he added, "on the charge of murdering Sir George Arlington, and these men must do their duty. But I have no doubt you can be allowed a cab."

      "But surely," she stammered, with white lips, "I may be permitted to go to my dressing-room."

      "We cannot allow you to go out of our sight, madam," said Ledbury "I will summon your maid. She can bring you what you require."

      "Very well," she returned, in a haughty voice; "that will do."

      When the French lady's-maid arrived upon the scene, her mistress gave her some directions in a voluble tone, and, in a few moments, she appeared with a fashionable morning cloak and a hat.

      There was much sobbing on the part of the servant as she dressed her mistress, but in a few minutes all was ready, and Laura Arlington was led to the cab which one of the constables had fetched.

      Once within the four-wheeler, she threw herself into a corner, and, pressing her hands to her face, wept convulsively for a time, and then, exhausted apparently by the fierceness of her grief, she remained still.

      The others inside the cab made no remark all the way.

      But when they drew up at the district police-station, the detective gently touched her on the shoulder.

      "Rouse yourself, madam," said John Ledbury; "we have arrived. I will assist you to alight."

      There was no reply.

      She lay as if insensible to all around.

      "She has fainted," said John Ledbury.

      But it was not so.

      When they raised her between them, she was a heavy weight in their arms, and a strange, pungent odour came from her lips.

      Laura Arlington was dead!

      Dead, by her own hand, by poison!

      Jacob Wadcombe received his full deserts as her accomplice, and well the rascal deserved it.

      The part of Joe Darby and his brother in the abduction of John Ledbury was never really brought home to them, and consequently they escaped their just deserts.

      As for Ledbury himself, he was rewarded handsomely, both by the family and the authorities, for all he had endured in following up the track of the Crimson Stain.

[The End.]